The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2)

by Stephen Langford

  Morel nodded and left. Keeton saw that Luiza had drifted off to sleep, so he poured himself a shot of Jakub’s vodka and got to work with the Russian cipher book on the false message he hoped would save Luiza’s life.

  ***

  “It doesn’t have to be this way, Luiza,” Keeton implored. “Think seriously about what I proposed.”

  They were sitting in her living room. Keeton knew that regardless of the rest of their conversation, this would be the last time he would set foot in there. He had the scrambled message in his coat pocket and was prepared to spend the next few days casing the dead drops so they could send his disinformation to whomever it would go, presumably to the next level of KGB stationed in Poland or perhaps even Moscow. Luiza had awakened with a bit of a headache but found a bottle of aspirin. The car ride over, with Keeton driving, had been quiet with that somber atmosphere of imminent parting. They had spoken a bit, but it was already agreed that he needed to leave Poland soon and that he would be using her car for a time. It was only as they had stood just inside her apartment door, awaiting the first words of their last goodbye to be uttered, that Keeton allowed a notion that had been simmering somewhere in his subconscious to surface. So he had asked Luiza to sit down for a moment because he had an idea.

  “Toby, I—yes, yes, you are Toby to me—this is my home, my country. Perhaps for you it’s not so difficult, but that’s because of your profession and that you serve your country no matter where you live.”

  “That’s true,” Keeton said. “And often I’m in danger, but that’s also part of the job. But you’re a professor, and your vocation is what we’d call a noncontact sport. I was sent here to help protect the bishop, and now that assignment is moving me out of Poland. Unfortunately, no matter what I do—and I’m going to try—you might still be in lasting danger from the SB or the next Jakub.”

  “That’s not quite fair or at least not quite accurate,” she said with a light and chiding tone that seemed to break the tension. “I got myself into trouble by sending those letters, by fighting in my own kind of way. I regret the danger to Walter.”

  “We’ll try to fix that, too,” Keeton said with a smile. “But back to you. Is your answer final?”

  Luiza smiled with a mixture of peace and sadness and nodded. Then she reached her arms around Keeton’s neck and kissed him. In the next several seconds, through the strength of their embrace and the depth of their kiss, much was communicated.

  When their faces parted she nodded again, they smiled, and Keeton turned and walked out of the apartment.

  Chapter 10. Wimbledon

  The origin of the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club is most properly reckoned to have been the creation of a court in 1875 at the Croquet Club’s original Worple Road site in London, in order to accommodate the growing popularity of a new type of racket sport, an amalgamation of jeu de paume and English inventiveness. Within a few years new courts were added, and a tournament was begun that would survive the turn of the century, two world wars, and the atomic age. Likewise, the club would remain private and exclusive—or as exclusive as any organization that depended on member money.

  As he waited for his car to be brought up, Philip Brown affixed the dark driving cap to the top of his head and reflected that this “all England” club was anything but “all English.” It must have been quite galling to the most proud and traditional British souls that membership was allowed to citizens of other countries, such as his own Canada, while most of the benefactors were natives. He smiled cruelly at the irony but refused to bask in it, deciding instead to enjoy the bright, sunny day and his recent good fortune.

  For a spy, which was to say for a civil servant, he was doing well. It was not only the new tartan-red MGB convertible that brought him this feeling of contentment. There was more, nearly all related to his love of tennis. It was true that in a mere few minutes he’d be piloting the sports car to Leatherhead, then due south down the A24 to Worthing, on the Channel. There he would check in at his favorite seaside guesthouse with its convenient views and elegant tea service. He would walk the pier, dine at Mitchell’s, and turn in after a few drinks and several of Poul Anderson’s latest fantastical tales. He would then breakfast early the next morning and return to London and ostensibly to work. The ability to take a drive to the sea, stay at the best accommodations, and return leisurely the following day was a result of the particular specialty of his employment, which was one of daily calm punctuated by the occasional flurry of lethality.

  More than that, however, Brown had just learned that he’d been nominated and voted in as a Temporary Member of the Club—“for meritorious service to the sport of lawn tennis,” which meant generous financial support for both the Club and various of her public charities. It was his third year in a row with the distinction, and of course he hoped to eventually become a Permanent Member. He’d also purchased, making sure the act was recognized by the Committee, five thousand pounds in debentures to support the Club’s expansion and building projects. He had even started discussing his intention to apply for dual citizenship.

  The MGB rolled out of the valet car park and stopped in front of him, just before it would have entered Somerset Road. A young man named Timothy, dressed in smart whites with standard purple and green accents, bounded out and held the door.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Brown. How was your match today?”

  “Very good, thank you. That old devil Emmit Boggs sure knows how to place his serves, but I’m proud to say I figured him out.”

  “That’s grand, sir. And with the Championships right around the corner, we’ll all pick up a few pointers soon. Oh, should I store your bag in the boot?”

  “No need, Tim,” Brown answered. He reached across and dropped the Gucci tennis bag into the passenger seat. Then one outstretched hand, which had earlier given up the keys now offered two coins to the valet, who nodded and thanked his patron and then carefully closed the door. Brown jammed the car into gear and tore away down Somerset. Once underway and steady, he carefully lifted a pair of bespoke round-lensed sunglasses out of his cotton shirt pocket, flipped them open, and slid them onto his face.

  Why was he devoted to such a game as tennis and why Wimbledon as its nexus? He supposed he was attracted by the characteristics of combat, the testing of skill and intellect and nerve. There was one warrior, crouched with weapon in hand. And across the field of battle another, equally ready or at least aspiring to be so. There was no covering fire or substitutions, and if you flinched or flagged you were defeated. The simple truth of it thrilled him.

  The MGB’s tires yelped at the meandering curves and positively cried out when he executed the right-angle turn at Chessington. He knew the roads well, having moved into a modest but immaculate manor home in Kingston upon Thames in order to be close to the Club. Again, why there when nearly all of his “calm” work took place right in the midst of London?

  The answer, like most of Brown’s philosophies, was simple: the Club at Wimbledon, and by deliberate extension the tournament known as the Championships, were the best. He not only appreciated this fact, but he sought to emulate it in his job—the established covers, the dead drops, the careful movements and double-backs, the practice and the meticulous preparation, the contingency plans. And then finally, at the pinnacle of the mission when all the rest was behind him and what was laid bare was the moment of moments, when he willed his pulse and breathing and muscles into synchronization, his finger would pull smoothly, and a small metal projectile would leap forward and extinguish the foe whom he’d centered in the scope of his weapon.

  With the tangle of Leatherhead behind him Brown pushed the red machine down the A24 and settled in for the last hour of a very satisfying drive through the countryside. He had considered stopping at one of the many local pubs and restaurants along the way, for a brief indoor respite from the intense sun and perhaps even to lift the soft top of the MGB for the rest of the drive. When asked why in heaven’s name would one do s
uch a thing on this most glorious day he would answer that like England his native land featured northern latitudes and that the strong sun, while nourishing, could be a bit too much.

  He would be telling the truth as far as it went but not the whole truth. The whole truth about him—the KGB killer with many covers and code names—was another matter altogether.

  ***

  “Give me your own firsthand account,” Director Morrison said over the Troilus phone scrambler. “The written version’s still being deciphered downstairs. You’re on the speaker, by the way.”

  Keeton sat at the tight makeshift communications desk in London Station 4, the bulky handset up to his face and his handwritten notes about the Schoolboy mission in Krakow spread out in front of him. A cup and saucer of coffee steamed to one side of the papers.

  “Well, Director, you’ve already read up to the part where Jimmy saved my ass and then I offered to bring Luiza Rolek to England, for her safety. She declined. Jimmy and I stayed and monitored Jakub’s dead drops, and on the second day we discovered the outbound. Jimmy even got a picture of the guy who was checking it—might come in handy at some point, but he’s probably just a local stooge, like Kozlow turned out to be. We placed the fake dope there for pickup on the next morning. Basically it said the girl didn’t know anything and wasn’t a threat to them. I also put in some language about not trusting Edgar and that maybe he was a double agent.”

  “I’ve already heard from the station chief in Warsaw,” Morrison said. “He was grateful for the information you passed along but would’ve preferred to bag Edgar himself. As it is, he’s left looking over his shoulder.”

  “That’s rich,” Keeton responded testily. “It’s his organization that sent me a dirty agent that came within two seconds of shooting the girl and then probably would’ve done it to me, too.”

  “I agree, but it’s just…”

  “And while I’m at it, I sure as hell don’t want to hear about my reputation for putting your counterparts in tough spots. I signed up to save people, not take care of everybody else’s soiled laundry.”

  “Done?” Morrison asked. He knew that his agent was right and deserved to let off a bit of steam. He also knew the tantrum would not last long.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Keeton replied. “Where was I? OK, we watched the stooge take the bait the next morning and then started packing up to go. We talked about sending a second note but then agreed this was a onetime thing. The risk of the police or the SB or a neighbor who might’ve heard gunshots finding Jakub before the next note was written was just too high. But we got a lot of good material from his apartment before we left. He kept everything in books, like he had nothing to worry about.”

  “I assume he didn’t hold the SB in very high regard.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. I’ve been reading through it all, and early on he complained several times about having to tolerate the SB surveillance of Schoolboy, about their incompetence and whatnot. We found about two dozen vodka bottles in the apartment, so I figure occasionally Jakub got a little tipsy and aired his grievances. Anyway, as far as I can tell, me and Jimmy made a clean getaway.”

  “Jimmy Morel’s a good man; he’s due for a special commendation. Incidentally, did you check on Luiza Rolek again?”

  Keeton hesitated for a few moments trying to discern whether there might be anything behind the question. He decided that no, this was simply part of his boss’s regular thoroughness. “No, I didn’t. She had her chance. I hope it works out for her; she’s a nice girl.”

  “Well, if and when the chief in Warsaw gives the all-clear I can ask him to check in on her. Who knows; there might be a Schoolgirl mission in your future. Now tell me about Roy.”

  Keeton was not looking forward to this part of the debrief, having wanted to simply send the written report via teletype and hope for the best. “He’s fine, but it was a complete fubar on my part. I got too curious about the Star mission from Lionel and sent Roy looking for this Mr. Tusk. Roy tracked him to the Gdansk boatyard, and Tusk got the drop on him. Could’ve shot him but instead just coldcocked him with a pistol and then left out on a coal hauler the next morning. Roy got a lump and a headache, but he’s alive, lucky for me. Good riddance to Lionel’s schemes.”

  “We’ll get back to Lionel. What about the analysis of Jakub’s material so far?”

  Keeton took a long sip of hot coffee and shuffled his notes around. “It all starts with Jakub’s last message to Moscow—well, the last real one. Apparently they have a man in London, code named Racket, with prearranged actions to take place in Rome.”

  “The Council?” Morrison asked.

  “It points that way,” Keeton said. “A few months ago Jakub had several exchanges with Mother Moscow mentioning Rome and this London-based asset. I found several references to tennis and to something Jakub called ‘his group of white-trousered pansy friends’—that was my translation, anyway. I figure that’s some kind of London tennis club that Racket belongs to, but I haven’t found any clues about which one. I’ve asked around here at the station, and they told me there are dozens of private clubs in London, maybe more.”

  “Can’t say I’m a devotee of it myself,” Morrison said. “I’ve heard of the Queen’s Club, if that helps.”

  “Sure you have,” Keeton laughed. “It’s only the most prestigious one there is—well, second maybe to the All England Club, where they have the Wimbledon tournament. I’ll keep checking. In the meantime, I think I’ve found a bigger break.”

  “Pretend we’re paying by the minute,” Morrison said dryly, his interest suddenly piqued.

  “Twice Jakub sent a telegram, in English, to a London address.”

  “Reckless,” came the expected response over the scratchy Troilus circuit.

  “I prefer overconfident,” Keeton replied, thinking back again to the British opinion of his actions in Kentucky. “Playing the odds of being monitored, like we did while we were in Poland. Besides, a telegram from Krakow to London is more likely a problem for the Reds than for the West.”

  “I guess so—what was in the telegrams?”

  “In both cases instructions to put in a newspaper classified ad. Included what to say. It was coded stuff but essentially was giving the green light to something—let’s see, here it is. First one is supposed to read, ‘To FK. European vacation is possible this autumn. Need your gear. Signed J.’ That was four months ago. Then a week ago the second instruction went to London—looks like the same night as his dead drop about the Racket asset. Anyway, here it is. ‘To FK. Time to pack your suitcase. Come see the miraculous scenery in Italy. Signed J.’ The actual paper or papers to be used aren’t specified, so they must either use a rotation or a bunch all at the same time.”

  “So you start by finding out who Jakub’s contact in London is,” Morrison said.

  “Right, we’re working on that. And on finding the newspapers. I figure we can see what help Lionel might provide.”

  The only thing Keeton heard for three full seconds was the soft hum and static of the transatlantic line. He was just about to ask whether the wire was still live when the director broke in.

  “Sounds like you have solid leads. I’m afraid you might need to run them down on your own, though. Well, not exactly alone. I might need to head over there soon.”

  Now it was Keeton’s turn to pause a few seconds. “To London, Director? We have a good team on the ground here—Jimmy, Roy, the safe house, and—”

  “It’s not that at all. Things have gotten complicated between Lionel’s boss and me. Things need to be handled. I can’t do that over this damned scrambler.”

  “Fair enough, then,” Keeton said. “You said we’d get back to talking about Lionel. What gives?”

  “Yes I did. As for Lionel, I have some unfortunate news.”

  ***

  Harry Haskins loved everything about the Crown Tavern—the entire Clerkenwell area, in fact, which remained a haven for leftward radical thinking. He’d s
topped at the Crown several times over the years and reveled in its storied history as a destination for the likes of Dickens and Lenin. Before deciding on a career as a part-time traitor, he’d stopped in at the Marx Memorial Library and Workers’ School just around the corner and enjoyed rousing lectures from fellow socialists. He had even recently considered moving into the neighborhood, but his current guaranteed rent was too good to leave, and besides, fifteen minutes on the Tube to Chancery Lane and another fifteen-minute walk to the Crown was not so bad.

  The telegram he’d gotten that morning, posted from Warsaw, had directed him to meet his “Cousin Leopold” at the Crown at one o’clock. Since his duty was not to reason why, he simply complied by sitting down at twelve forty-five and ordering a pint. An hour and another pint and a half later he was still alone. He had expected perhaps a fellow London agent to give him his new assignment or to pass along an additional message for Jonathan or to even see the KGB assassin himself—although he would not have relished that development in the least. Instead, at two o’clock he shrugged and finished off the third pint and left the Crown, heading back toward the Chancery Lane Station. He was too relaxed, from both the beer and the notion that perhaps he’d avoided bad news, to notice the man following him.

  Two blocks from the station his tired legs pulled him along the narrow Dorrington Street. The man following Harry reached up and removed his sunglasses. Just as Harry reached the intersection of Dorrington and Leigh Place, the second agent stationed up ahead timed his approach perfectly and pushed Harry into the alley. His hand was buried in a jacket pocket and evidently had a gun trained on Harry’s stomach.